Excerpts From Role Playing Endeavours
By Matt Hayward
Introduction
Writing is one of my many passions and I've been writing fiction as a hobby since the age of nine. From my main subject matter of Fantasy to make-believe journals, I've always had a penchant for creating worlds and people from imagination. This hobby led me in recent years to discover another great past-time: Role Playing.
Role Playing is essentially group creative writing. Several writers band together and write a story, each 'player' as they are referred to, takes control of a single character. Building a world and plot in a group is a heavily social activity that has created many friendships, results in endless chatter and takes up a large proportion of each day. Not only that, Role Playing provides an opportunity to involve yourself in a diverse world of writing styles. First Person, Third Person, Past Tense, Present Tense, a multitude of different writing preferences and it all adds up to a vibrant collage of variation that keeps you hooked. Each Role Play acts as a surprise: You never quite know what mixture you're going to make with other writers.
This is a small anthology of forum posts (where I do most of my Role Play writing) from various Role Plays and a few different communities. The purpose is to not only leave an impression of the variety of Role Play but as a journey in to my own development, demonstrating just how much my writing has improved since I began Role Playing in late 2006. There is an interesting evolution of writing style and quality that when collecting the various excerpts I was pleasantly surprised.
Now, on to the actual pieces of writing...
NB: Besides correcting typographical and spelling errors, and some presentational changes, all pieces of writing are identical to the original forum posts.
***
Knight On The Run
This piece was written in December 2006 and was actually a response to a writing prompt. An exercise ran by another writer, she provided two words that needed to be included within a Role Play-style piece of writing. For this, the words were 'goldfish' and 'tree.' One of my earlier Role Play posts, it was a challenge to keep focus on only the one character. The writing prompt exercise that ran monthly was a great help in developing my writing as each entry was given useful feedback.
The tall knight, dressed in the black armour of his Order, sat down near a large oak tree, the massive trunk would ensure no attack from behind, and he could see clearly enough, thanks to the shade the branches of the ancient tree created, protecting his pale green eyes from the blinding mid day sun.
His large helmet was placed on the ground beside him, the white plume, made from three feathers taken from the wing of a swan, was stained and carried several flecks of blood. With his helmet removed, the long, curly hair of the knight loosed around his shoulder. Also looking matted and dirty, his face carried the signs of a man living in woods for too long.
"I hope they decide to rest tonight," he thought to himself, "I have been chased for too long, and could do with a rest." He had been chased for nearly two weeks now, in the endless forest, the large, heavy built trolls never giving him respite for that entire time, he had run almost constantly.
The large pack of twenty trolls seemed never to tire as they continued their pursuit endlessly. However, the large knight was growing tired, and his armour was beginning to dull, the polish fading from the surface of the heavy metal structure.
As he sat near the tree, he watched as his large, black war horse drank from the river, envious that the horse could drink from that source of water when he could not. The water in this forest being unfit for humans, he dared not partake, even as his steed rehydrated itself.
No food was to be found in these woods, for only poisonous berries and the large trees, bearing no fruit in the height of summer, were the only things to grow there.
Looking at his steed, he spoke to the animal, "I know nothing swims in those waters, friend, but if you find anything, even the smallest goldfish, please bring it to me." As he finished those words, he silently cursed himself, "You fool, speaking out loud in this momentary respite, the damn trolls will bloody hear you."
Sure enough, as he spoke those words, from a distance he heard the sound of great bellowing horns, signalling that the trolls were once moving towards him, sounding after sounding, the pack communicating, preparing to hunt him once more.
Standing quickly, he placed his helmet upon his head once more, and lowering the visor he hid his face. Then, letting out a small, short whistle, he ran towards his steed, the horse looking up at the sound. The head of the horse rose just as the knight jumped onto the saddle.
Kicking the sides of the horse as he drew the reins to spin the animal around, the knight spoke quietly as he lowered himself on the horse's neck, "Sorry, friend, we must run once more." And with that, he brought the horse to a gallop, running through the forest, the knight hoped that he would not have to contend with the trolls and that the distance between them would mean he would stay ahead.
"Damn these trolls," his voice was bitter inside his head. Bitterness towards the forsaken creatures who hunted him. Bitterness at his own foolishness for entering the forest in the first place.
***
A Final Effort
This was written in June 2007 as a prompt in itself. Part of a lesson for a Role Play Academy I ran for a while that was intended to help younger, less experienced writers improve their writing. This was the 'scene setter' for the other person to respond to. My intention was to help the other writer develop a sense of feeling to a scene. I'd gone for despair and desperation in this piece and looking back at the long-forgotten post I think I succeeded in doing so.
The world seemed to be ablaze. Orange and red flickered wildly as fire filled the vision of the man known as Aram. Wild shadows danced across the streets of the village. The cracking of wood and structures filled the air along with thick, almost black smoke. Heat overbearing made sweat pour down his face in a torrent that served to blur his vision even further than the smoke did.
Cries and moans could be heard from within the wooden buildings of the small village, but Aram was more than aware that there was nothing he could do to help those who had been trapped within their thatch roofed houses. All he could do was try to help the ones who had somehow managed to escape. There were others who had also managed to survive in such a way that they could help in the search. Most, however, were either dead, or dying; beyond hope of healing.
"Aram! Have you found anyone yet?" The gruff voice bellowed behind Aram, deep and concerned. Aram turned to look towards the friend he knew was approaching. Aram and Grend had known each other for well over fifty years, and were closest friends. Aram slowly shook his head grimly, a single tear falling down his face. Worry racked his soul, he was not sure what had caused this instant storm of flames, but he was almost certain he had felt a single flicker of magic the instant before it seemed hell had been unleashed upon this peaceful village.
"No, Grend, I haven't. Is anyone alive, or not going to die in the next hour or two?" Exasperation was clear in his voice. Exasperation and fear. Sadness. He wished he could do something more than futilely search for survivors.
The man, six feet eight inches tall, smooth shaven face, features also smooth, but showing strength; covered in the black of smoke, pressed out with his mind, not caring for the slight aura that he know would cover his slender form like a nimbus. Outwards he searched, hoping he would be able to sense a strong enough life force.
There! There was one! None other, sadly, but one life saved would be much better than none. Aram focused on that signal of life, that beacon of hope, and found the exact location."Quick! Grend, follow me!" The musical, powerful voice seemed to have lost the despair portrayed only a few moments prior. Suiting his own words, Aram began to run with great pace, the long, once white, dirtied robe of one piece seemed to blow around his ankles as he ran. Grend followed as well, although he was in no way as fast as Aram.
Watching the man in front of him run, the long white hair seeming to dance to the backdrop of flames, Grend wiped sweat from his forehead. He made no comment on the nimbus that had appeared round his friend, nor how he had known where this person was; Grend had known for a long time about the truth of Aram, although many in the village did not know.
“Are you okay?” Aram looked down now at the person laid upon the floor, having reached them in only a few moments. It was so hot! And so near to the flames that encompassed what was once the house of the mayor. Aram could feel the heat begin to burn his skin, but knew he had to do more yet. As sweat continued to pour, much like a waterfall now from his chin, he looked back at Grend. "Gather the others. I'm sorry, this is all we have now." He then turned his emerald eyed attention back to the person laid upon the floor, awaiting a response, if indeed any would come.
***
A Journey
Another Role Play Academy lesson starter, written in July 2007. The other writer was entirely new to writing outside of school, so also rather young, as such my scene here is purposefully vague and open ended. My intention was to simply give a setting and some explanation of my character.
The luscious greens of the panoramic view brought a smile onto the face of Ja'rech. Standing atop a steep hill, azure optics gazed down upon the deep, wide valley, noting each individual shade of his most favoured hue. The grass, light, all the blades drifting to one side in perfect unison as a slight wind blew throughout the near silent valley. Darker greens, bushels, copses of trees, scattered seemingly randomly. The few clouds in the pale blue sky added to the collage of colour with slight shadows.
The valley had been his home for many, many years, and now, having made the decision to depart such a tranquil place, Ja'rech felt tinges of sadness. He knew, however, that the decision he had made was the correct one, and he would stand loyal to that decision. Leaving for good, never to return.
Turning his back now to the beautiful, picturesque view of his old home, the man began to walk away. Ja'rech was what some people would consider tall, standing at six foot two inches in height. With a steady pace did he begin to increase the distance from his home, walking down a shallow slope, approaching the more commonly travelled grasslands of Meldia. It was, however, a considerable distance to those grasslands, and the road that would lead Ja'rech to his intended destination.
So it was, three days travel on foot before reaching the road. A tough journey, Ja'rech rose with the sun, setting off after a quick breakfast of berries that he had picked the previous night, always fresh. A pace that was not enough to push the calm, mainly solitary man to such a level that he was overtly tired, but far from a gentle stroll, was maintained until hour the sun reached its peak, where Ja'rech would stop, hunt for a rabbit and eat. And again, the relentlessly consistent pace continued until nightfall.
Such was the nature of Ja'rech. Consistent. Dedicated. Determined.
It mattered little to Ja'rech that the long, single piece robe that covered his slim, compactly muscled form now looked comparable to the attire of a man who was more used to being sat upon the cobbles of the inner cities asking for loose coppers; rather than the robe of a monk, as it had done on Ja'rech's departure from the valley that had been his home for countless years.
Upon reaching the road, Ja'rech grimaced. He had expected the road would be busy, many people available to ask for direction. For, although knowing the name of the city he needed to visit, he was ignorant as to the actual location of the place. Reaching the road from his southward journey, Ja'rech saw it travelled almost perfectly east to west. Luck, it seemed, would have to be with him, as he chose one of the two options and began to walk along the road towards the west.
Supposedly well used, the road seemed to be entirely constructed of compacted dirt, obviously from countless ages of people, horses, carts and carriages travelling its length. The footing was sure, a slight leaning in this particular stretch downwards to Ja'rech's left side made him wonder if the road was totally suitable for carriages and the like. Not that, of course, it mattered to the lone figure of the one time hermit.
Several hours passed, a slow pace maintained, and still no sign of living people traversing this road. The heavy, slightly curved dagger at the left hip, attached to a wide belt of leather would be slipped into the folds of material under the flowing robe that covered the form of Ja'rech. He was sure that he did not want to come across as a threat to any who he would meet, so concealment of his hunting weapon would be the wisest option now he was more likely to encounter another human.
As he travelled, ever onwards, unrelenting, not truly caring that no one was on the road; eventually he would meet someone, the wind had picked up its pace, and was blowing dark brown, almost black, hair about his shoulders. Not entirely unpleasant, the wind was warm, caressing. Certainly, with the sun just past its peak, the day was good.
It was then, perhaps a full four hours after reaching the road that, in the distance, Ja'rech saw the figure of a person travelling towards him. Fantastic! He would get confirmation now about the direction he was travelling in. His steady pace never changed, and as the stranger came closer, it was noticeable that, despite the ragged attire, Ja'rech permeated, quite unknowingly, from his form, an air of regality.
***
His Rightful Place
This was written in February 2008 and is an amalgamation of three writing prompts as I had been unable to get online for an extended period of time. This is an especial favourite of mine as it involves part of an extensive background for my primary Role Playing character - Saladin Akara. Not only is this one of my favourite pieces, it also was one I really enjoyed writing.
A chill, brisk gust of wind flew through the ancient building. Many had seen their lives through in this place, the Guild of Warriors had built this a long time ago, the years now innumerable in their distance. The building was of stone and the architecture was masterful, as was all the craftsmanship in this world.
Through the corridors on the outer edge of the institute did the wind travel, rushing past many people, sending shivers along the skin and causing goose-bumps to raise, individual hairs standing fully erect for an instant.
Indeed, this building served as an institute, the Academy of the Warrior's Guild. It had raised many mighty Warriors, brought many leaders to the world. Vast was the structure, housing no less than twenty thousand at once, at times this number even doubled.
Yet, within the walls of this Academy were dorms for accommodation of those still learning, barracks for active Warriors, training grounds, lecture halls for the finer points of combat - tactics and stratagem. All these created almost a world all of its own, separate to the rest of the vast and great land upon which the Academy was engulfed.
The chill wind came to hit a relatively young man, causing a shiver to travel down his spine in a sudden pulse. Luckily for him the wind had passed him, for the shiver was also caused by anticipation of what was to come. The many years he had spent in this place had all been to reach this one point, to regain honour for his family's name.
Akara, the legendary Warriors of lore had lost their honour and a curse had they been given for their failings. This young man intended to remove the shame, if not the curse as well. Yes, he was shivering in anticipation.
It was today, and as he walked the corridors, surrounded by a square of guards, two at his rear, the same number directly in front of him and to either side, they boxed him in as protection. Many would not hesitate killing an Akara, but an Akara taking a position of power would bring even less guilt. Or at least that was the thoughts of many.
As he walked, two feet of space given to him, he smiled, even as that chill wind blew his silver hair behind him into an intricate dance, flowing and serene in its movements. Sinuous lips of palest crimson curled upwards as the smile adorned his smooth features.
Indeed, the hair of the man danced behind him. His smooth, straight hair, falling to his thighs, had been the object of much ridicule. It was natural for Warrior's to have curly, rough blonde hair. The beauty with which the silver locks of this young man sat and even danced in the wind, the pale lights of lanterns catching in the dark against those strands, making them seem to be alight of their own accord. As is always the case, the ridicule existed only to hide deep envy.
Although his pace was somewhat forced by those guarding him, he was at ease, his manner regal, his poise befitting one of even higher power than he was about to receive. This six foot seven inches tall man walked with a grace that seemed unnatural for one of such a muscular build. The man was beyond lithe, his muscles, solid and well trained seemed to bulge through his attire, making his natural grace, comparable to that of a cat, seemingly unnatural.
The walk through the establishment was a long one, and even now, after half an hour or so of walking, they had a long way to go in order to reach their destination. Strolling with his poise, back straight, held high and perfectly still, as he had always been taught to walk, his mind drifted.
Turning one corner brought the man and his guards to pass the main training yard. Open planned and vast, it was possible to have two thousand at once going through various sword forms with sufficient space to ensure no danger to other occupants of that vast area.
He remembered the many years he had spent on that yard, in weather both pleasant and not. Whether in blistering heat, or freezing snow, he had allocated for himself several hours a day more than was required to be in the main yard. His many teachers were strict, as was expected.
Movements, tiny, seeming almost insignificant were sometimes forced to be repeated hundreds of time a day, in order to achieve the mastery which had entitled the man to the position he would today attain. At this point, those minuscule movements of fingers, legs, arms, his entire body came without thought and with the precision of a master craftsman.
Yes, that was what described him best, a craftsman. His craft was war and battle. Even in the early years of his schooling in the craft, he had showed potential and skill beyond most his age, and some older than him. And now the many works of this young craftsman would be rewarded, much like a painter having his works placed in the Museum at the Capital.
Walking past the main gates brought memories of the many times he had passed through them, even when he would normally have to keep within the grounds of the school. He had also been born with the powers of a Sorcerer, and because of this he was allowed to study that craft also. He had been given a position of power within the Guild of Sorcerers, but it was this position that meant the most to him. He had always aimed for this position, even from being a small child.
He knew that, as he passed the area in which the Generals resided, it would not be long until he would be bestowed the power and respect he had striven for since before his memory allowed him to recall.
That area was ornate, tapestries on the walls depicting scenes of battle and strangely enough, scenes of tranquillity. Niches that had been designed into the walls of perfectly worked stone, held various artefacts, vases, ancient helmets of some now unknown metal, sculptures, and busts. All seemed to give the feeling that the Generals were almost considered royalty, which would be truthful to say, in fact.
Walking past the darkly varnished doors of heavy, solid oak, those feelings of anticipation returned as he began to ensure he was prepared aesthetically, he began by feeling his face, ensuring all of the hair had been removed, which indeed it had, his face smooth, although he was beginning to see when looking in a mirror his features beginning to gain the almost carved look his father's face had.
Ensuring his face was smooth; he turned his attention to his attire. The official ceremonial garb of the Guild wrapped around his frame in all its glory. It seemed that around this young man's figure, the very epitome of the Guild was personified. Although slightly loose, it still appeared that his muscles bulged through the silken material. Not only the muscles on his arms, but those also surrounding his legs and back, shoulders, and chest, all seemed to be of magnificent size.
Pure white was that attire, and the best way to describe it is as though it was a Mandarin Suit, the toggles and hem line all were of golden thread. The trousers too were white, the insignia of the Akara family sewn into the thigh of the sinistral leg. Flowing to his ankles also, was a cape of the same, smooth material, held across his shoulders by a beautifully woven cord made of the same golden thread, only weaved over and over into intricate twists. Upon his feet were soft, thin soled shoes, the material cloth, not leather, the soles giving just the required amount of support needed in a duel, they were plain, the soles a very light grey, and uppers a plain white, no gold was to be seen on the footwear.
Indeed, the man was beautiful in his attire, his silver hair flowing to his thighs, cape to his ankles dressed in perfect white with accents of golden thread. Some would say that the only non-ornamental piece he wore destroyed that look of beauty; most would say it enhanced it. Or at least those who could appreciate beauty in all its forms.
At his left hip was carried a sword. Many believed that instruments of death could not be considered beautiful, and it is true that the sword has no other purpose than to kill, or seriously damage, another human being. However, the weapon at the young man's waist was, in truth, a beautiful piece of art.
Long and slightly curved was the sword, nearing six feet in total length, the perfectly crafted, yet plainly designed blade of polished and folded steel was hidden in its scabbard. The scabbard was the only black piece upon him, and coated in leather, it had been moulded to fit the shape of the blade perfectly, ensuring perfect grip whilst in the scabbard and swiftest drawing when the sword was required.
The leather scabbard was designed intricately with what appeared to be tribal markings, all smooth lines, curves and swirls, not a single straight line was to be seen in the design of the scabbard.
Despite the intricacy of the scabbard, much the envy of many Warriors, to those who appreciated true craftsmanship, it was the hilt that attracted attention.
Golden, it was stylised as a dragon, scales of the dragon running along the two and half handed length of the hilt, providing perfect grip in battle, those scales were often seen reflecting the light of the sun or moon. As was the dragon's head that served as the pommel of the sword, mouth slightly open, its head was crafted to perfect skill, the eyes, teeth, and every detail intricate and precise, giving the true feeling the hilt was indeed a dragon frozen in gold at the will of this man. The tsuba, although only a plainly designed elliptical piece of golden metal, was a thing of perfect craftsmanship, that was evident to anyone.
That was the Warrior's Guild, or at least those at the higher ranks, beautiful and at the same time, lethal and efficient. And this young man portrayed it well.
Now it was time, he was ready, his attire and blade placed precisely, he was ready, all he needed to do was push down the anticipation that was filling his soul and mind. Using ancient techniques taught to him by his mother, he continued to walk as he pushed that feeling down, deep into his being until he was unaware of its very existence. Now he was truly ready.
The men around him stopped, the two in front stepping to the side to reveal a heavy oaken door upon which was etched the symbol for the Guild of Warriors. Stepping forward, the young man pushed on the heavy door, following the movement as he entered the room, his manner still speaking of regality.
What he saw was amazing, much more than he had expected. The room was dark, no; it was black, all except for the very centre of the large room. Having never been here, he could not tell how large the room was, but the single spot of light seemed to suit being in the middle. In that spot, a single shaft of light shone down upon a chair, high-backed; it looked comfortable. But it was not the apparent comfort of the chair that made the silver haired man gaze in awe.
Indeed not, his eyes of luminous sapphire glowed brightly, a characteristic of his dealings with magic, showed awe in sight of the chair that would be his seat with those ranked highest in the Guild. And the seat very much looked the part. It was of a red crystal, and as the light shone upon it, the rays seemed to penetrate only to be kept their, as though mirrors kept the beams of light bouncing around within the chair.
It was the effect of this seeming hunger for light from the chair that made his eyes grow wide in pure admiration, for as the light continued to shine down on the chair from beyond the ceiling, perhaps it was the sun? He didn't know. All he knew was that with the light endlessly bouncing off the internal mirrors of that red chair of crystal, it looked like a seat of fire.
"Take your seat Saladin Akara; you are welcomed into the Guild Council of Warriors as the Twelfth Seat in our Council." The words seemed to boom from everywhere at once as Saladin entered the dark room. He knew what he must do, and being guided by the light, he walked slowly towards the chair of fire, keeping his manner regal and with an air of superiority that he forced to stay in place, the anticipation filling him once more.
As he reached the seat, he observed it for a matter of seconds before tuning around, his back now to the chair. Taking a final step backwards, he then lowered himself onto the seat, as he did, it seemed almost as though the chair changed its composition in order to make itself fit perfectly around the form of Saladin.
Indeed the chair was comfortable, more than comfortable in fact. As the shifting beneath Saladin ceased, leaving him comfortable, it was as though the room took it as a signal, and the light slowly returned, from everywhere the light came, to leave the room in a state of brightness similar to daylight.
Revealed were the other twelve members of the Council, including the Spokesman for the Council. All men looked at Saladin, their eyes actually showing admiration, almost as though they were shocked that one so young found had found his way into the most elite and powerful of the Guild.
In comparison, Saladin looked at the thirteen men with eyes showing he considered each of them equals now. It had been his forefathers and their allies that had built this Academy to what it was now; he had now reclaimed what was rightfully his through birthright.
Although, running through his soul was admiration, not for the others in the room, but for his fathers, the one who had surely designed this most beautiful room and the chair of fire.
Relaxing in his seat, he closed his eyes momentarily, sighing softly.
***
A teacher? Really?
A comedy piece written also in February of 2008, it was an introduction to my character, Hawk. This Role Play was a comedic parody of Japanese Anime based in High Schools. Generally, such animes are ridiculously silly often to the point of tedium. I think I achieved such a feeling here - It's the most ridiculous piece of writing I've ever done!
With a hand rolled cigarette hanging from his lips, the smoke rising towards the ceiling, Hawk lounged in a comfortable seat within the Staff Lounge, nodding his head to the music playing into his ears. At full volume, the collection of classic heavy metal filled the office of the mainly rigid staff at Nottori High School.
His head being thrown back and forth at the onset of some shredding guitar, the black clad man could not help but grab his own guitar, wailing out, even louder than he would otherwise have done, having the music blasting into his ears. "Guitar solo of DOOM!"
Standing then, the guitar seemed to land perfectly in his hands, as he threw it the small distance from the resting position against the chair, to his waist level. It was a mere second, and with plectrum in hand, and fingers rushing over the fretboard, the solo was performed with perfection.
A truly shredding sound, the high pitched notes being made on the strings flowing one into the other, with a pace that was awe inspiring. Fingers moved in a near blur, the sound reaching some considerable distance, the wireless amp constantly being turned on, meaning any riff would be played through the PA system of the school.
There he stood, Hawk, for nearly a full two minutes, his pose so often referred to as the 'Power Stance,' legs near on double shoulder's width apart, knees bent to allow the guitar to rest on thighs. All through that time, his head was thrown back and forth at a rate of knots, his mohican hair cut, near on a foot long, would likely have cut anyone if they had crossed its path.
"OOOOH YEAH!!!" As the final note, reverberating as the string was pulled high, near the point of snapping, was made, that final exclamation would be heard almost a hundred metres away.
Then, swinging the guitar to rest on his shoulder, much like a battle ready axe, Hawk left the staff office, getting several dirty looks from the other staff in the room. He didn't care, of course, and as his leather trenchcoat, spikes about a half inch in length all along the hems, swung slightly as he turned, it was an extravagant flourish as the left side was whipped outwards by his free hand.
Pushing the door open, making it swing outwards rather violently, Hawk made his way down the rather uniform corridors of the school; they all looked the bloody same! He wondered if he would ever get used to the layout of this place. His entire manner spoke of a little bit of lunacy.
Shoulders seemed to swing in beat to the music still playing in his ears, as his head moved back and forth in what many could call a dramatic interpretation of headbanging put into slow motion. His walk was much more of a confident swagger, and it seemed strange that, with such large boots upon his feet, his manner was almost light footed.
He was making his way to the first class of the day, and he really had no idea who it was, which group of students it was going to be. It didn't really matter, he would teach them all the greatness of the guitar, regardless of who they were. As the cigarette was reaching its end, he spat it onto the floor ahead of him, stamping on it as he passed; only to slide into his mouth another, lighting it in the same motion.
***
Lessons
Another piece featuring Saladin, this was written in November 2008. It was an introduction of Saladin and his son into a Role Play, and I took the opportunity to delve into the relationship between father and son as well as between a couple of other people important to Saladin. Sweeping across several scenes and with a lot of conversation, this piece is my most natural in terms of style and scale ever done in a Role Play. Compared to the previous piece featuring Saladin, I feel that my writing has vastly improved by this point.
The throne room was an exuberant place, taking up nearly an entire floor of the Tower of Peace, roughly half way up the great structure of stone. A floor of crimson marble, panelled walls gilded with gold, covered in paintings and tapestries of battles, peaceful scenes, previous prominent leaders. Against the walls of the oval shaped hall, numerous chairs were placed, armless, but lightly cushioned, made of neatly carved brickwood. Upon each of these chairs sat a man, or a woman, dressed in plain black, the personal entourage of Warders to Saladin and Miyumi Akara; those who did their bidding. Servants, one could say.
From the ceiling hung great chandeliers, intricate crystal structures that amplified the light of twenty four candles lit within each of the twelve chandeliers, creating daylight in the windowless chamber. The doors, of heavy wildoak, were varnished to a dark mahogany hue, bore massive golden handles, and by each of the double doors was stood a guard, carrying a spear, a sword at each man's hip. They wore the black armour of the Warriors of The Night; the Guild Chapter Saladin had been welcomed to when a boy. They would ensure none entered who was not permitted to. Each stood as a wolf ready to strike, their armour polished to a shine, tabards carrying the golden dragon of house Akara worn over the armour.
However, the most impressive sight in that great hall was at the far end, upon a dais. It had been made through an amalgamation of various tradesmen and Sorcerers, when Saladin Akara was elected as the sole leader of Kelante. High backed, made entirely with gold and silver, the throne was carved intricately with dragons and the arms themselves were the figures of long bodied dragons, ending in heads of the great lizards of lore. To the right of the great throne, a slightly smaller emulation was positioned, made using the same methodology for the first Simti of Kelante. King and Queen of the great land, Saladin and Miyumi Akara sat with a serene regality.
To the sides of each of the two , on chairs like those against the walls, sat six Guardians, their faces masked by the great cowls of cloaks made of silk. They were the only people allowed in the throne room with faces covered, but Saladin knew each of them well enough to have no need to see their faces. They acted as personal advisers, and often would speak in the Simtar and Simti's place, mysterious and carrying a serenity nearly matching that of the two leaders.
A loud banging upon the doors to the chamber broke Saladin from quiet conversation with his wife. Both Saladin, the silver haired warrior, and Miyumi, the brown haired mechanic from another world, looked to the doors with anticipation. The guards, of course, allowed their spears to cross, blocking the entrance, as a small door carved within the main doors that had been designed to allow sixteen feet of headroom, for processions and the like, opened to reveal an old, greyed man, wearing the same armour as the guards, though without a tabard. Unbuckling the scabbarded sword from his hip, to pass it to one of the guards, who had moved their spears upon seeing the man, he then walked towards the dais. His manner was one of quiet confidence, and despite having a head full of grey hair, he had the feel of a man solid and strong. Kneeling as he reached the foot of the dais, on one knee, left palm on the marble, right on heart, he rose a moment later, with all the surety of a man much younger than himself.
"Simti, Simtar, I bring news of Zerel's arrival. He is back from the Academy." He had stood to firm attention, his entire body erect and still. Saladin, however, waved his hand to signify he could stand at ease. Relaxing, the man still stood much like a rigid structure, his hands folded behind his back, legs just over shoulders' width apart. Saladin placed a glance at Miyumi, sharing a smile with her. He had always loved that smile, and still it burnt a fire within him. Releasing her hand, Saladin stood and walked towards the newcomer.
He was an impressive sort of fellow, standing at six foot seven inches in height, his black attire, all silk, embroidered heavily with golden thread, depicting multiple dragons, in various poses. His hair was silver, perfectly straight, and fell to the small of the tall man's back. A warm smile creased a face made of lines and planes, and as he reached the soldier, Saladin clapped his shoulder with strong hands rough from years wielding the sword.
"Therous, my friend, must you always be so formal? I remember when you gave me a thrashing with that whip because I failed twice with the weapon." Saladin laughed heartily, and so did Therous, actually relaxing then. The two men had been friends for many years, and Therous had been personal chief aide to Saladin for nearly three hundred years at one point. "And now, you're bowing and scraping to me like you've never seen me trip over myself. Lighten up man, we're friends."
Therous, though, was a man held with tradition, probably due to his age, and he could not help but bow slightly as he spoke, his own shoulder length hair falling to cover a slight blush. "As you say, Simtar. And yes, remember that day I do. You no be sure if I be joking or serious. When your eye started to bleed, you knew me for sure. You passed the third time."
A true laugh, unrestrained, loud, erupted from the old man's throat, and it filled the room. The Guardians shifted slightly, Miyumi grinned, the Warders lowered their heads, fearful, and the guards tensed. Saladin, however, joined in Therous' laugh. "I thought you were going to kill me that night, Therous. You were as ruthless as they came. A good man, nevertheless. I learned my lesson, that is for sure."
And so, for several minutes, the two men laughed, remembering old times, and old battles. Miyumi, who had grown to know the older of the two since her time on Kelante, simply smiled as her husband and his closest friend let rip in public. So rarely did it happen that she found it truly refreshing.
"My love, you should smile and laugh more often in public. The people will love you for it." The message was sent through the link Saladin and Miyumi shared, a link built on the day of their wedding. It allowed a sharing of direct thoughts and emotions, along with always knowing the other's location. Such was marriage on Kelante. Her smile widened as a feeling of nothing but love peeked through the link.
Even the guards and the Warders seemed to relax more with the laughter of two old friends filling the room.
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The ride from the Academy had been a long one, three days on the road. Travelling from the harsh desert that housed the sprawling stone building where many generations of Akara had gone to learn the fighting arts, through lush fields, and finally to the metropolis of the capital. And, though given the luxury of a carriage, sat on one's backside for three days led to discomfort regardless of having a multitude of cushions, and a bed.
Really, it was mere protocol, a sign of respect that Saladin had placed to ancestors. Training at the Academy would become a prerequisite for any who would become Simtar. Even if it would be that the Akara line not remain in the position of Simtar, Saladin had often stated that should the armies fail, the Simtar should be able to protect his people. And so it was that Zerel was to be the first in a long line of Sima, princes, to go to the Warrior's Academy to learn the various forms of combat, in preparation for leadership. He was a good student, or so they said, and he had learned quickly, not that he had much choice - his father's legacy was one that impressed most, and stunned the rest. The teachers at the Academy, however, gave no quarter to the young boy, and he presumed that was at the command of Saladin.
The inside of the carriage was not quite ornate, but it was by no means plain. The chair, built against one wall, the full length of the carriage, was made of cushioned red velvet, and on the opposite side, a bed was also made into the wall. The mattress was thick, the quilt and two pillows filled with down feathers. Enough space was between each for Zerel to stand. The front wall held a washstand and mirror, and was such that the boy needed to be careful not to kick it in his sleep. The walls were lacquered black, as was the outside, and a hanging lantern gave light and warmth. Though, this time of year gave good warmth anyway, the early autumn was always pleasant weather.
The young man, only one hundred and fifty years old, held the appearance of his father at that age. He carried the body of an eleven year old Earth child, Kelantans living longer and ageing much more slowly. His hair was from his mother, brown, and he kept it short, half way to his shoulders, and it was straight, like father's. Eyes, unlike either parent's, were a light grey that held the surety of a more seasoned fighter, yet with the innocence of a child who had not yet experienced real combat. He had, of course, been in simulations and small skirmishes, leading his own squad of ten troops, but nothing so serious that he was affected by combat yet.
He was sat in the chair, slightly sprawled, wearing a robe of dark grey, all of one piece, covering a strong body, reading a book written by a writer called Norindah Vanacka, on the intricacies of battle tactics. It wasn't a piece required by the Tactics lessons, but the boy carried a similar zeal to his father's, and was always studying. Of course, however, most of his studies had been completed at home, where Saladin taught the boy, and had done nearly since the day Zerel could walk. For Zerel, life was about battle, and fighting, and learning. For a boy so young, however, he had a good understanding of why his life must be this way.
"Sima Zerel, the Tower is in view. We'll be home in about an hour." The voice was that of a woman. Alynne Zelanah. One of the Battalion Kinva of the Quietus Necatus Gentis Chapter of the Warriors' Guild, a woman renowned for her skill in battle. It had been her job, since Zerel was a young boy, to act as his protector. Saladin, it was said, had chosen the woman because of her prowess in battle, but also as she was known as a caring individual. "You should get yourself ready, darlin'. You know how your da is when it comes to protocol."
Despite her accent, Alynne's voice was like music, and Zerel could not help but smile when he heard the comment about his father. The boy had come to consider the woman a good friend, and though she would say such things when it was only herself and Zerel, she would never be so informal in the presence of the man who was revered throughout the planet as the man who had succeeded in bringing and maintaining peace for nearly a thousand years.
No one, it was said, ignored a summons to the Tower of Peace, and Zerel had indeed been summoned. Supposed to have been at the Academy for the duration of the winter, Zerel was rather surprised at the overly formal request sent to the Academy that Zerel return home immediately. An hour was given for packing, then he was in the carriage on his way home. The lad wondered, as all lads do, if he was in trouble for some deed or other. Alynne had assured him that everything would be fine, but he was still unsure. Either way, and regardless of his worries, he made preparations to get ready, putting his book down, and moving to the washstand whilst removing the robe. "Thank you, Alynne."
It took forty minutes for Zerel to get fully ready, but when he walked onto the small step at the back of the carriage, that led to the ladder that gave the driver's seat, he was certainly prepared. His clothes were just as formal as the summoning he had been given. Trousers and tunic of black were accompanied by boots and a cape of the same colour. The cape and high collared tunic were heavily embroidered, as were his father's, with golden dragons, and his own insignia, a leopard's claw, was on each side of his chin, in silver, on the collar. At his left hip was the sword, an exact replica of the one Saladin carried, only scaled to be the perfect size for the young boy. Hair was tidied, and as he reached the roof of the carriage, Alynne smiled at him.
"Boy, when you're older, watch yaself. The Gentis will be hounding you." Both laughed, and even the driver, his whip cracking just above the horses' heads, chuckled. Alynne was always quick to note that Zerel would likely be a handsome fellow when he reached adulthood. It was a sign of their friendship that a middle ranked soldier would speak to the Sima in such a way.
"Ballation Kinva, you are a rogue." Zerel's voice held a fake regality when he spoke, through stifled laughter, and Alynne simply placed a hand on the boy's head with a grin.
Zerel looked at the path ahead, and a quiet respect filled him, as he looked upon the Tower of Peace. It was a magnificent structure, one that loomed even before the rest of the city came into view. It was symbolic of the peace that had been held for all but the few months Saladin had been exiled, and also a sign of the respect the people of Kelante held for their leader. For Zerel, it was home, and he was glad to be in its shadow again, though he was always reminded of the responsibility he would eventually carry whenever he looked at it. Nevertheless, he smiled. It was certainly good to be home.
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As both of the doors opened into the throne room, the guards made no move to hinder the path of those entering. Even the guards would not be so cautious as to deny Sima Zerel and his companion free access within the Tower of Peace.
First to enter was Alynne, who was dressed in formal attire, rather than her usual figure hugging clothes. A blue robe, bearing the crossed naginata of The Gentis on the left breast, under which were three knots of black, to signify her rank. Kneeling half way to the throne, in the same manner as Therous had, though he had left now, and Saladin was once more sat on his throne. "As commanded, Simtar Saladin Akara, I bring into your presence Sima Zerel Akara. Shower unto him your mercy and wisdom."
It was a formality that needed to be honoured, even for Saladin's son; one that preceded even Saladin, some rumoured it had originated before the clans joined to form the land of Kelante. It had been met, however, and now Zerel entered. He looked much like his father in his manner - confident, sure, regal. He was every bit a warrior, despite his young age, and he somehow looked dangerous as he nodded to the guards and eyed each person in turn. When his gaze fell upon Miyumi, all that poise and properness faded as he ran to her, offering her a big hug, which she accepted and returned kindly.
Saladin, on the other hand, looked deathly serious, his face devoid of any emotion. Alynne noted this, and her face showed some of the same concerns Zerel had had. She was, however, also acutely aware that it was no business of her own. Quietly, she moved to the edges of the room, and stood ready to defend, not that the need would arise this high in the Tower.
Then, Saladin stood. With his obvious mood, all jollities subsided, and he raised a single hand. Before them, in the centre of the room, a tall, thin sliver of silver light appeared. Slowly, it seemed to turn, as watching a door open from the side. It was like a window, a window into another world. Likely, it was another world. Alynne knew of these Gateways, but she was merely a warrior, and she could never reason out why such things were possible.
"Sima Zerel Akara." It was rare that Saladin used Zerel's full name including title, even in public, and Alynne could not help but frown as Saladin went on. She had no children of her own, and likely never would. Zerel, however, she imagined was like a son to her. "You will come with me now. Step through the Gateway immediately."
Such harsh words. Not even a welcome. Saladin, it seemed, was in perhaps the worst mood Alynne had seen him in since she was placed in charge of Zerel's well being. Regardless, Zerel broke from his mother's embrace, Miyumi giving him a comforting smile and a hand to the cheek in gentle caress. The young boy looked worried, but he walked through the Gateway anyway, sparing a glance, Alynne noticed, for herself. It held a hidden pleading. She hoped the boy would not be in too much trouble, whatever wrong he had done.
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Saladin watched as his son stepped through the Gateway, and adeptly held back a smile. That there was a good boy; he would certainly make a good Simtar. As the boy stepped through, Saladin followed, his face kept to a stony expression, as though thoroughly unimpressed at one thing or another.
A single thought came through from Miyumi, and he was glad that he was already through the Gateway. He had to smile. Be kind to our son. Saladin had even managed to express his falsified displeasure through the link between his wife and him. As the Gateway began to fade, Zerel turned, watching his mother. Then, his grey eyes turned upwards to Saladin.
"W-w-w-what did I do, father? I'm pretty sure that I've done nothing wrong. Are... Are you mad at me?" The boy was obviously nervous. And with the Gateway now fully closed, Saladin could smile at his son, and lower himself to give the child a warm hug. He could not help but chuckle as he hugged the lad.
"No, son, I'm not mad at you. But, I had to make sure people thought you were in trouble." As he stood, Zerel looked at Saladin questioningly, but simply nodded.
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Zerel took the opportunity then to look around the place they were in. Turning slowly, he took in their surroundings. Wherever they were, it was a beautiful place. The sky was a clear blue, the sun in the sky giving off a gentle warmth that was joined by a cool breeze. The grass beneath their feet was perhaps the deepest green Zerel had ever seen, especially after spending the last few months in the desert. Flowers of all kinds, some he recognised, others he did not, scattered about the field they were in, making a brilliant collage of myriad colours and hues.
Gentle, rolling hills were in the distance, and on the horizon, formations of clouds could be seen that spoke explicitly of a mountain range. One thing, a strange thing, Zerel noticed was that no smoke could be seen in the air. There was always smoke visible on Kelante. He looked up at his father, who also seemed to be taking in the view.
"Where are we? And why are we here?" He was not as nervous now, and it showed in his voice.
"We are on a different planet. And we are here for two reasons: One, according to Fred, this planet is empty, no one lives here. Two, you are going to learn the greatest power at your disposal." For Zerel, his dad was a real hero. Always so sure of himself and the words he spoke, the ruler of Kelante was a figure of solidity for Zerel. The boy could not imagine his father ever being weak of mind, or weak of body. He admired the man, and aspired for nothing but to be like Saladin when he was older.
Zerel nodded slowly, and asked no question, still taking in the magnificent view. Overhead, birds flew, a whole flock of them, moving in unison, as though sharing a single mind. Zerel sometimes wondered if they really did share a single mind, the way their movements were perfectly synchronised. Some two hundred or so fowl in the air, never once colliding with another. It made him smile.
Fred, of course, would know about the planet. Zerel wondered if he should ask for a Fred link at the Academy, but he knew he would never receive it. Fred was the AI created by Miyumi, and though many were apprehensive of something created by a human hand being so intelligent, he had so far never been wrong about anything he said. Miyumi had managed to create several Fred units, mainly for communication between the Guilds and different military units. Her own power with Electricity, that had been realised when married to Saladin, meant that each Fred unit would be powered for over a thousand years. Zerel had even heard word that the technology his mother was so used to had been discussed as weapons on Kelante. Though, no proof had been seen.
"The Will and the Word, son, is so great a power that, once you have learnt it, you must only use in the MOST dire of situations. That is the first lesson - this is to act only as a last resort, when everything else you have learnt will not save yourself, or your people."
Zerel stepped out of his reverie with a slightly startled jump, his eyes widening slightly at the words of his father, and the seriousness they carried. It was very rare that Saladin spoke with such seriousness that Zerel spoke without truly thinking, "Yessir."
Saladin simply nodded, as though expecting such an answer. Zerel was slightly thrown back by the severity of those words, and something told him that the power he was about to learn was both magnificent and terrible at the same time. He had never heard of this power and wondered exactly what it was. "Come, let's find a suitable place to begin your training."
Zerel spent a moment watching his father walk away, and wondered if he could ever emulate that self surety, that confidence, that poise. Following only a few steps behind, Zerel tried to copy his father, not knowing that he already did such a great job. He allowed his mind to wander again, knowing that training would begin soon, and enjoy the beautiful landscape of this empty planet.
***
Awakening
Another introductory post, this written in December 2008. Certainly not my most well written piece, but I enjoyed using repetition here to set a theme that ran throughout the story of this particular character. It was something I'd seen other people do and was experimenting; I'd have to say I was pleased with the end result.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
And so it was that time continued on, as it always had done, relentless, unstoppable, paying no mind to the whims and wishes of Gods and Mortals alike. So had it always been, so will it continue to be. Seconds transpire into minutes, which morph to become hours; hours incessantly become days that bring us our months. In turn, months extend to become years, the purpose of which is to bring us our decades. And so it is, inevitably, time carries onwards.
And who shall resist its flow? What fish can resist so powerful a tide? Are we not all, at the end, powerless to the will of time? It matters not that we stand still, that we maintain some observation, or that we close our eyes. Time will continue its steady, unchanging pace. And as it moves, we too are forced to shift with it. Choice is not a factor. There is no bargain to be had when dealing with time; no trading, no barter, there is only obedience.
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